


tell me if you need a loving hand

by potterstagswag



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Canon Bisexual Character, F/F, Fluff, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, at least i'm aiming for fluff, queer ladies with cats
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-19 17:26:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3618120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potterstagswag/pseuds/potterstagswag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern AU where Clarke has a cat, Lexa kind of had a cat, and now apparently they may be expecting kittens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Warning: Oncoming Storm

The girl next door has a cat.

It’s not an important fact, really, Lexa doesn’t even know how or why she’s managed to store it in the back of her memory. But it’s there, it’s something she’s aware of, and it doesn’t become relevant until she too has one of her own.

Kind of. She’s just cat sitting. For a week —  _maybe a week and a half_ , Anya had sheepishly amended, before flying off to Annapolis for a work retreat.

Lexa’s never had a pet in her life, never sought the companionship of someone whose literal crap she had to clean up after. But it wasn’t like it was hard. Jerry (she’s sure that Anya had chosen the name sarcastically, despite the formal and almost solemn way she refers to him) doesn’t do much; he sleeps, he eats, and he doesn’t protest when she puts Castle on during dinner every night. If she were being honest, he’s been the best company she’s had in a while.

So she takes care of him. It ends up being eight days, but they’re wildly uneventful. And when Anya finally makes it back to D.C. and comes to pick him up, Lexa is almost sad that she won’t be spending another quiet afternoon with him — reading or watching reruns while a nice summer breeze drifted in from the window she always kept open, because he was a well-mannered fella, and she had the sneaking suspicion that he was as much a homebody as she was.

But then she is reminded that the girl next door has a cat.

* * *

The knock is quick, probably intended to be polite, but still very, very loud.

Lexa supposes she should be grateful — she should’ve been up half an hour ago — but that didn’t change the fact that when she glanced at her clock it read 6:30AM, it was a Sunday, and who in their right mind would want to see her at such an ungodly hour?

Well, whoever it was apparently needed to see her urgently, because they were knocking once again.

“Coming,” Lexa huffed, throwing on a robe as she shuffled towards the door. She didn’t bother with checking the peephole — she wasn’t entirely sure if her eyes were even open anyways — and answered it.

Standing at the other side was a blonde girl, fist still suspended mid-knock, and  _now_ Lexa’s eyes were open.

Blue. Her eyes were really,  _really_ blue.

Lexa blinked, and so did the girl, but before she could properly react to what exactly was happening, the blonde blurted out, “Do you have a cat?”

So this day wasn’t going anywhere near what she was expecting, and, if the red flush crawling up the collar of the blonde’s shirt were any indication, the other probably picked up on that, too. But she didn’t say anything else. And it wasn’t a difficult question to answer. So Lexa furrowed her brows before shaking her head.

“No,” she clarified after a pause.

The blonde then proceeded to continue what she’s done all morning: letting out a groan, throwing her hands up in defeat, and thoroughly confusing Lexa.

“This just doesn’t make sense! You’re the last person on this floor, and nobody else has a cat either! A couple parakeets, and the dude over at 24 has a goat — I’m still not sure if we’re supposed to report that to management or not — but no cats! I just don’t  _get it_.”

The blonde must have finally noted that the confusion on Lexa’s face was bordering on ‘extremely’ now, because she blushed even more.

“I think my cat’s pregnant,” came what was probably meant as an explanation, but before Lexa could voice that it, in fact, _only made her more freakin’ lost_ , the blonde hastily added, “She went in heat a couple days ago, and usually it’s fine because she never goes anywhere and I knew that nobody on this floor had a cat, but this time… Well, she’s just acting strange. And I don’t know for sure, but one way to find out is to see if it’s, you know, possible that she was… that she’d been…”

“… Impregnated?” Lexa supplied when it seemed that the other couldn’t find her words, honestly unsure of why she hadn’t closed the door yet. It probably had something to do with the laugh she got in response.

“I was going to say ‘being a sneaky little hoe’, but, yeah. That works, too,” the girl smirked. She hesitated, before sticking out her hand. “I’m Clarke, by the way.”

“You’re next door,” Lexa acknowledged. She realized she’s seen glimpses of that blue before — and mentally kicked herself for having such a hard time looking away from it to look down at the offer. She accepted the handshake, not missing the fact that Clarke’s hand was calloused, but very warm. “Lexa. I’m, um… sorry about your cat…?”

There came that laugh again, and she was acutely aware that she hadn’t even brushed her hair yet. Lexa tried her best to mat it down without being too obvious. If Clarke noticed, she didn’t let on, and only offered a dry smile instead.

“No, uh… don’t be sorry. Actually, I guess I should be the one apologizing. Were you sleeping?” She finished the question with a small wave at Lexa’s robe. Blushing, the brunette pulled it tighter around herself.

“Yes, I was, but I actually should be getting ready for my day now,” she cleared her throat, straightening her posture. To look more dignified. With bedhead and a fluffy purple robe.

Clarke nodded, the corners of her mouth twitching. “Right. Well, I’ll let you get to that, then.”

“Yeah.”

“It was nice finally meeting you.”

“… Yeah.”

“Alright…” A pause. Then, “I’ll be seeing you.” And then she was leaving. Lexa watched her, vaguely wondering how the five feet from their doors seemed to simultaneously be so far, yet far too short. When Clarke was just about to turn the knob, Lexa surprised both of them by calling out to her.

“I do hope that your cat has not been impregnated,” Lexa heard herself say. She was quick to ignore the fact that those words had  _actually_ fallen out of her mouth, but not so much the way the blonde had immediately turned around. Clearing her throat, Lexa then slammed her door.

She didn’t catch the sight of Clarke’s responding, growing grin.  

* * *

 

When Thursday finally rolled by, Lexa was almost too exhausted to remember anything from before she’d finally slipped into her pajamas for that night. A glass of red wine soon followed, then she flipped the television on. By the time the next Castle rerun was about to start, sunlight had given way to dusk and a light drizzle, and she was ready to try relaxing.

If only she had a way to stop thinking.

Apparently, tonight, that was easier said than done. Some things were easy to put out: the amount of paperwork she had to bring home, the meeting with her board a couple days from now. She knew there was no use — she did not become the head of a century-old corporation by dwelling on questions she had already asked herself.

But then there was Clarke. And if she were to think about it —  _which she wasn’t doing, goddamnit_  — then she would probably notice that the only question running through her head during the last couple days was ‘why is she so intriguing?’.

Lexa squeezed her eyes shut. This was utterly ridiculous, they had barely even had a five minute conversation. In fact, that had been their only conversation; every time she thought she saw a flash of blonde inside the building, she had never paused long enough for nothing more than a wave. Not that she was  _actively_ avoiding Clarke (because that would constitute caring, which, again, was utterly ridiculous considering the lack of logical reasoning). It just seemed as though the other girl liked to stumble through the hall in the most absurd times of day — usually in the middle of the night, often with a dark-skinned man following after her, and always with a grin on her lips.

Lexa took a big gulp of wine and stubbornly disregarded the twist her stomach gave at that last thought.

Beckett had just given Castle an exasperated look for the fourteenth time this episode when the rain outside got louder. The pelting was rhythmic, drumming a sense of peace into her bones, but it also sounded far too close for comfort. Glancing over her shoulder, Lexa saw that there was already a wet spot on the carpet just below the open window.

She sighed and trudged over, careful not to get her socks wet, and looked outside. Her apartment was only on the second floor, but it still gave a view of the street below. A smile worked its way across her lips as she noticed that the pot of lilies sitting at the front of the building over was getting a good shower.

As she moved to close the window though, her expression dropped. And for an  _utterly ridiculous_  reason, Lexa’s heart promptly skipped a beat.

It was blurry and she had to squint her eyes, but there was no mistaking that there was a small ledge that connected right to the side of her window. It probably served no purpose, only there for aesthetic reasons — it wasn’t by any means accessible.

Unless you climbed out the window.

Sure enough, when Lexa poked her head out she could see that the architecture was consistent for the entire building. The ledge led to the window next door.

Her chest was feeling tight because she had just foolishly gotten herself drenched, she tried to rationalize. No other reason. No other reason  _at all_. And with that resolve in mind, Lexa slowly closed the window, put Castle on pause, and slammed back the rest of her wine.


	2. Curiosity's Killing the Queers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, thanks for all the kudos, guys! I'm sorry it took so long for me to update, but seeing that much support just made me really want to step it up a notch. Anyways, here's chapter two, and also please don't judge me for the chapter title -- it's midnight and my brain's curfew was two hours ago.

“--and I told him that she still hasn’t exactly forgiven me for dancing with you during Prom, but he wouldn’t listen. He’s dragging me to the dinner with her father next week.” 

“See, I told you life would’ve been so much easier if you’d figured out just how gay you were in high school,” Clarke hummed, wedging her phone between her shoulder and cheek as she stuffed a spoonful of peanut butter in her mouth. 

Wells snorted at the other end of the line. “If by easier you mean Chad McDouglas would’ve been shoved me in twice the dumpsters, then, sure.”

“Chad McDouglas wore sandals with socks, and I’m pretty sure you could buy out all the landfills in the tri-state area  _and_ an armed escort to take him where he belongs. It’s okay. You are superior.” 

“Your idea of vengeance is very disturbing.”

“But effective,” she smirked. Wells laughed, but it was drowned out by a crash of thunder outside. The gasp ripped its way out of her throat before she could stop it, her pulse quickening in her veins, and Clarke instinctively clutched tighter to the cell phone. 

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to take even breaths, and she knew that her friend had gone stock still as well. 

A few moments passed before Wells spoke up again. “Clarke? Hey, are you still with me? It’s okay...”

She worked her jaw. Clarke gave herself a second to listen to the way he continued to mumble soothing words, until she could finally block out the sound of hammering rain. 

“I’m fine,” she eventually managed, squeezing her eyes shut and pinching the bridge of her nose, “I’m-- We’re good. I’m still here.” 

Wells didn’t say anything, but she could still hear him breathing. Raking a hand through her hair, she grabbed the tub of peanut butter and moved to the couch. 

Mrs. Norris was already there, nestled underneath seven of the eight pillows and snoring. She’d been doing better the last couple days, no longer screaming at every sign of movement. Clarke knew that she’d only have the peace for a week or so before she started up again, so she made sure to appreciate it. Flopping herself down, she snuggled against the warm fur. 

“... Thanks for staying with me,” she mumbled into the receiver, half hoping that the cushions muffled the words. But, of course, Wells heard. Because he was her best friend.

“I could come over,” he offered, though his tone sounded like he already knew she was shaking her head. 

Because he was her  _best_ friend. 

Instead of declining though, Clarke just choked out a humorless laugh. “It’s been two years.”

“Grief doesn’t have a time limit, Clarke.” 

She had to physically bite her tongue. Wells was just trying to help, she knew that. Just like she knew that it probably wasn’t going to help either of them if she snapped that,  _yeah_ , she’s well aware of that. It’s the same goddamn thing every one kept repeating to her again and again and again. 

_It’s okay to be sad about it, Clarke._

_It will get better someday, Clarke._

_It won’t haunt you forever, Clarke._

A familiar, bitter sensation that never truly went away -- it just ranged from bearable to excruciating -- began to pool at the pit of her stomach, but before she could react to it a knock pounded through the door. Mrs. Norris let out a disgruntled growl at the disturbance, and she furrowed her brow.  

“Wells, give me a second. Someone’s knocking,” she said, placing the last pillow on top of the cat in hopes of appeasing her. Clarke gave her a look that said ‘behave’, which was answered by a clearly unamused blink, before getting up. 

“Yeah, no problem,” Wells was saying, “Oh, but, hey. If it’s Octavia, can you ask if she’s got my gym pass? I keep telling her that I can just get her her own, but--”

So, yeah, Clarke wasn’t really listening anymore, but once she answered the door everything screeched to a complete stop. Lexa stood at the other side, her head tilted to the side and, for some reason, soaked from the neck up, and suddenly it felt like her chest had collapsed in on itself. 

But, like, in a good way. 

The two girls stared at each other for a few seconds before Clarke shut the door. 

“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” she hissed over Wells, who was still talking, and she tried really hard to ignore what she just did, “Wells,  _shut up_ , oh my god.”

“What? Why? What’s going on? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, it’s-- Remember my neighbor?”

“The broody one from 22 that never sees you trying to wave at her?”

She blushed. “Oh my god, shut up,” Clarke repeated, “But, yes, that one. She’s here. She’s at the door.”

“What?”

“ _She’s at my door, Wells._ ”

“... And you’re talking to me in front of her...?”

“I-- Um, well, no. I shut the door.”

“ _What_?”

“I shut the door, Wells, stop making me repeat myself!”

“Then open it, you weirdo!” 

Clarke opened her mouth, but she was silenced by another knock. And she wasn’t entirely sure how a knock could sound confused, but it did. 

She could hear Wells laughing in her hand, but she was still frozen in the expanse of space that five seconds of panic could not have logically fit into -- yet still somehow managed. It wasn’t until he raised his voice that she snapped out of it. 

“Open the door, you’re being ridiculous. And don’t hang up -- just put me on speaker! I promise I won’t say anything!” 

Clarke didn’t have time to consider how truly idiotic that suggestion was, she just did as she was told. Tossing the phone on a nearby counter (she heard Wells yelp, “okay, ow” upon impact), she hastily threw the door open again. 

Lexa was still there, arms crossed and expression unreadable other than the slight crease in her brow. 

“Hi,” Clarke greeted, breathless, “I-- Uh, sorry about that. Important call. I didn’t mean to shut the door in your face. That was rude. Important calls make me rude.” 

Lexa just arched an eyebrow. 

“... So... What can I help you with, neighbor? And do you need a towel...?”

That earned the other brow quirking up, but when Clarke gestured to her damp collar she cleared her throat. 

“Oh. No, that won’t be necessary. I was actually wondering if I could speak with you?” 

Clarke blinked, though that was the only hesitation before she nodded her head. “Yeah, sure! Would you like to come in?” 

The brunette opened her mouth, but instead of answering she just gave a jerk of her chin -- which Clarke assumed was a ‘yes’ -- and stepped inside. 

“Thank you,” Lexa mumbled, her eyes scanning across the apartment. Clarke just shrugged and closed the door, unable to ignore the way her hair was clinging to her neck. Or that when she passed by her, she smelled like jasmine and lavender. Or that there was a small droplet of water sliding down her temple. Seriously, what was even happening and, most importantly, why was it happening to  _her_. 

“This is a nice apartment,” Lexa’s voice brought her back, and she fought down the swell of satisfaction when she noticed the brunette’s gaze linger on one of her paintings. “Do you live here alone?”

The last words were softer, hesitant almost, but, other than a slight tilt of her head, Clarke paid it no attention. Moving to the kitchen, she grabbed a towel and brought it to her anyways. 

“I do,” she answered, but then stopped herself and rolled her eyes, “Actually, no. That’s a lie. Mrs. Norris over there lives here, too. She’s my cat.” 

Lexa looked like she wanted to say something, but stopped herself. Which, for whatever reason, disappointed her. 

They had barely accomplished a full conversation together. Both times, they had quite literally shut each other out. But it was the way Lexa always held her chin up, how she rolled her shoulders back, that made Clarke wonder what thoughts were traced under the silence. 

It was like she’s got the outline, but not the coloring; each action just made her want to hear every single word that’s been replaced by a quirked brow, a press of the lips, a clench of the jaw.

Clarke wanted the entire masterpiece. 

Apparently the offhanded introduction hadn’t been satisfactory to Mrs. Norris’ standards, because a low yowl was heard from the couch. Both girls watched as two narrowed eyes peered over the cushions, regarding them with what Clarke had long decided was aggressive-passiveness. 

Lexa turned to her. “Has she been feeling better?” 

The question threw her off a little, but before she could answer the brunette bit her lip (distracting), wiped a bit of water off of her neck ( _very_ distracting), and added, “You had mentioned that she had been acting different? How so?”

And, alright, so being questioned about her cat’s behavior wasn’t exactly what Clarke had in mind with the whole ‘thoughts that were traced under the silence’ thing, but it was a start. She lifted her shoulder for a small shrug. 

“Oh, um, I don’t really know... She’s been lazier than usual. Crankier, too. It’s gotten a little better for now--” she put that bit in mostly because Mrs. Norris had let out an insulted hiss, “--but it’s still kind of weird. My friend thinks she might just have a hormone imbalance or something.” 

“Your friend,” Lexa repeated slowly, voice lowering just enough to be noticeable, “... The dark-skinned man who stomps up the steps with you at odd hours of the night?” 

There was a noise that sounded suspiciously like a squeak from the kitchen, but both girls ignored it. Clarke knitted her brows. 

“Uh, yeah, that’s him. Sorry, I’ll tell him to keep it down next time...?”

Lexa stared at her for a moment, before her eyes flickered to the painting. When she turned back, her expression was blank. “Is he a vet?”

“What?”

“Your friend. He has a license to diagnose feline behavior?” 

“I--”  _Okay, seriously what is happening._  Clarke glanced over at Mrs. Norris, who had managed to schlep herself off the couch. The little brat still watched them with general disinterest, but she could see that she was inching closer to Lexa. 

“No,” Clarke frowned, “He’s not a vet.”

Again, Lexa just stared at her. Actually, it was more of a glare now. She’s seen it tons of times -- usually when the brunette got in the ever-dreaded situation of catching Story Steve at the vending machines. And it’d be a lie to say that it didn’t make her uncomfortable (Story Steve, who has been known to talk about his parakeets for  _hours_ , would even bow out after only five minutes of conversation), but Clarke’s never been one to let anything phase her. Nor was she one to back down. 

(And, okay, so  _what_ if her eyes also happened to be ridiculously mesmerizing).

“... I see,” Lexa eventually broke the silence, along with their silent competition. Then, she was walking towards the door. 

“I suggest you find someone who is, then.”

She’d already opened the door and was halfway through when Clarke realized what was happening. She gave her head a little shake and rushed after her. 

“Hey, wait!” she called, a little bit satisfied when Lexa did exactly that. Clarke tilted her head. “I thought you said you wanted to talk?”

Lexa didn’t bother turning around (which did  _not_ satisfy Clarke), but she did look over her shoulder. “Yes... I just wanted to say that you play your music very loud.” 

And then she let herself out, quietly shutting the door behind her. 

A couple beats of silence settled over the apartment, and then Wells broke it with a confused laugh. “Well. She sounded delightful.” 

Clarke just hummed in reply.

Mrs. Norris had retreated back to the couch, disappearing beneath the cushions with a grumble. After a moment, Clarke realized that the storm had passed. She walked over to the window that overlooked a street below, noticing the way the clouds still had that angry look about them. 

She was admiring a small pot of lilies when Wells added, “But I thought you said that Raven’s still fixing your iPod speakers?” 

Clarke opened the window and smirked. “Yeah, I did.”

 

* * *

 

 

Beckett was giving Castle yet another lecture on his stupid decisions, and it sounded a lot like the one Lexa was giving herself in her own head. But she wasn’t going to think about that. Or, at the very least, she was going to  _stop_ thinking about it as soon as the episode was over. And after she’s finished this last glass of wine. And also maybe after drawing up a timetable of the appropriate times to leave the apartment in order to not run into Clarke in the hallway or laundry room or elevator. 

Lexa sighed and dragged a hand over her face. 

It wasn’t her place, she decided to convince herself. She was a twenty-two year old grown woman; she couldn’t just go barging into someone’s apartment, who she barely knew, and announcing that she suspects that their cat had been impregnated by the cat that she had only been watching for a friend. 

But, then again, that also probably meant that she shouldn’t have gone there in the first place -- shouldn’t have gotten caught up in the little curiosities that is Clarke Griffin (like the paint under her nails, and the egregious amount of pillows on her couch, and the fact that she referred to her pet with an honorific), shouldn’t have put herself in a position that had her curled up under a blanket and too stressed to smirk at one of Esposito’s jokes. 

“It is  _not_ my place,” she tried again, but her half-hearted reassurance was cut off by a dull thud by the window. Lexa immediately shot up, her face calm but muscles tensing to jump into action. 

The sight that greeted her wasn’t an intruder though. Well, actually,  _technically_ it was. Lips dipping down to a frown, she approached the mess of brown and black fur that was currently glaring at her. 

“Hello,” she greeted Mrs. Norris, glancing up at the window. It’d been a few hours since she’d left Clarke’s apartment, and the sky had cleared up but was already dark. “Does Clarke know you’re here?”

The cat merely blinked up at her. 

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’,” Lexa muttered, letting out a long breath. She pressed her lips together and considered her options. Of course, the most obvious one was to return her to Clarke. But that would entail having to go back there, and also possibly reveal how the cat had snuck into her apartment in the first place. The other obvious one was to just shoo it out the door, but she couldn’t really let it spend the night just wandering around the building considering its  _condition_. 

Before she could make a decision, she felt a soft nudging sensation against her foot. Lexa looked down, surprised and mildly horrified that Mrs. Norris was...  _cuddling_. To her. And also growling (perhaps purring? She vaguely recalled Anya mentioning that Jerry -- and some other cats -- did that sometimes). 

The cat continued its assault, eventually forcing her to take a step back and mutter out a stern ‘ _no_ ’. But that was more or less ignored. Instead, Mrs. Norris just stared at her, seemingly understanding the request for boundaries, but nevertheless not really going away. With a start, Lexa noticed that the cat did look a lot less grumpy than when she’d seen it before. 

“...  _Fine_ ,” she eventually relented, shaking her head, “You may stay one night.  _Only_ one though, understand? And as soon as I wake up tomorrow, you will be out that door and in an area conspicuous enough for Clarke to find you. Is that clear?”

Mrs. Norris didn’t say anything, but she could’ve sworn that she nodded. 

Lexa crossed her arms. “Alright, then. Good. I will put out a bowl of water in the kitchen -- do not scratch anything, and sleep well.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own any of these characters or The 100. I'll try my best to update on a regular basis -- thanks so much for reading!


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